Statistical Methods for Psychology 8th

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Statistical Methods for Psychology 8th Edition Howell Solutions Manual

INSTRUCTOR’S SOLUTIONS MANUAL

Statistical Methods for Psychology

EIGHTH EDITION

David C. Howell
The University of Vermont

Visit TestBankDeal.com to get complete for all chapters

ii
 Table of Contents

Solutions for Chapter 1 Basic Concepts .................................................................................. 1

Solutions for Chapter 2 Describing and Exploring Data ......................................................... 4
Solutions for Chapter 3 The Normal Distribution ................................................................. 18
Solutions for Chapter 4 Sampling Distributions and Hypothesis Testing............................. 28
Solutions for Chapter 5 Basic Concepts of Probability......................................................... 33
Solutions for Chapter 6 Categorical Data and Chi-Square.................................................... 39
Solutions for Chapter 7 Hypothesis Tests Applied to Means ............................................... 58
Solutions for Chapter 8 Power .......................................................................................... 73
Solutions for Chapter 9 Correlation and Regression ............................................................. 84
Solutions for Chapter 10 Alternative Correlational Techniques ............................................. 99
Solutions for Chapter 11 Simple Analysis of Variance ........................................................ 107
Solutions for Chapter 12 Multiple Comparisons Among Treatment Means......................... 128
Solutions for Chapter 13 Factorial Analysis of Variance...................................................... 143
Solutions for Chapter 14 Repeated-Measures Designs ......................................................... 162
Solutions for Chapter 15 Multiple Regression ...................................................................... 186
Solutions for Chapter 16 Analyses of Variance and Covariance as General Linear Models 198
Solutions for Chapter 17 Log-Linear Analysis ..................................................................... 213
Solutions for Chapter 18 Resampling and Nonparametric Approaches to Data ................... 226

General Notes

These solutions were checked using a variety of calculators and computer software. Answers
often differ (sometimes a surprising amount) depending on how many decimal places the
calculator or program carries. It is important not to be too concerned about differences,
especially ones in the second or third decimal place, which may be attributable to rounding (or
the lack thereof) in intermediate steps.

Although I do not provide detailed answers to all discussion questions, for reasons given
elsewhere, I have provided pointers for what I am seeking for many (though not all) of them. I
hope that these will facilitate using these items as a basis of classroom discussion.

iii
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THE UNITED IDOLATERS
 TO THE COMPANIONS

H , Ode 17, Bk. V.

How comes it that, at even-tide,

When level beams should show most truth,
Man, failing, takes unfailing pride
In memories of his frolic youth?

Venus and Liber fill their hour;

The games engage, the law-courts prove;
Till hardened life breeds love of power
Or Avarice, Age’s final love.

Yet at the end, these comfort not—

Nor any triumph Fate decrees—
Compared with glorious, unforgot-
ten innocent enormities

Of frontless days before the beard,

When, instant on the casual jest,
The God Himself of Mirth appeared
And snatched us to His heaving breast.

And we—not caring who He was

But certain He would come again—
Accepted all He brought to pass
As Gods accept the lives of men....

Then He withdrew from sight and speech,

Nor left a shrine. How comes it now
While Charon’s keel grates on the beach,
He calls so clear: “Rememberest thou?”
 THE UNITED IDOLATERS

His name was Brownell and his reign was brief. He came from the
Central Anglican Scholastic Agency, a soured, clever, reddish man
picked up by the Head at the very last moment of the summer holidays in
default of Macrea (of Macrea’s House) who wired from Switzerland that
he had smashed a knee mountaineering, and would not be available that
term.
Looking back at the affair, one sees that the Head should have warned
Mr. Brownell of the College’s outstanding peculiarity, instead of leaving
him to discover it for himself the first day of the term, when he went for
a walk to the beach, and saw “Potiphar” Mullins, Head of Games,
smoking without conceal on the sands. “Pot,” having the whole of the
Autumn Football challenges, acceptances, and Fifteen reconstructions to
work out, did not at first comprehend Mr. Brownell’s shrill cry of:
“You’re smoking! You’re smoking, sir!” but he removed his pipe, and
answered, placably enough: “The Army Class is allowed to smoke, sir.”
Mr. Brownell replied: “Preposterous!”
Pot, seeing that this new person was uninformed, suggested that he
should refer to the Head.
“You may be sure I shall—sure I shall, sir! Then we shall see!”
Mr. Brownell and his umbrella scudded off, and Pot returned to his
match-plannings. Anon, he observed, much as the Almighty might
observe black-beetles, two small figures coming over the Pebble-ridge a
few hundred yards to his right. They were a Major and his Minor, the
latter a new boy and, as such, entitled to his brother’s countenance for
exactly three days—after which he would fend for himself. Pot waited
till they were well out on the great stretch of mother-o’-pearl sands; then
caused his ground-ash to describe a magnificent whirl of command in the
air.
“Come on,” said the Major. “Run!”
“What for?” said the Minor, who had noticed nothing.
“’Cause we’re wanted. Leg it!”
“Oh, I can do that,” the Minor replied and, at the end of the sprint,
fetched up a couple of yards ahead of his brother, and much less winded.
“’Your Minor?” said Pot looking over them, seawards.
“Yes, Mullins,” the Major replied.
“All right. Cut along!” They cut on the word.
“Hi! Fludd Major! Come back!”
Back fled the elder.
“Your wind’s bad. Too fat. You grunt like a pig. Mustn’t do it!
Understand? Go away!”
“What was all that for?” the Minor asked on the Major’s return.
“To see if we could run, you fool!”
“Well, I ran faster than you, anyhow,” was the scandalous retort.
“Look here, Har—Minor, if you go on talking like this, you’ll get
yourself kicked all round Coll. An’ you mustn’t stand like you did when
a Prefect’s talkin’ to you.”
The Minor’s eyes opened with awe. “I thought it was only one of the
masters,” said he.
“Masters! It was Mullins—Head o’ Games. You are a putrid young ass!”
By what seemed pure chance, Mr. Brownell ran into the School
Chaplain, the Reverend John Gillette, beating up against the soft,
September rain that no native ever troubled to wear a coat for.
“I was trying to catch you after lunch,” the latter began. “I wanted to
show you our objects of local interest.”
“Thank you! I’ve seen all I want,” Mr. Brownell answered. “Gillette, is
there anything about me which suggests the Congenital Dupe?”
“It’s early to say, yet,” the Chaplain answered. “Who’ve you been
meeting?”
“A youth called Mullins, I believe.” And, indeed, there was Potiphar,
ground-ash, pipe, and all, quarter-decking serenely below the Pebble-
ridge.
“Oh! I see. Old Pot—our Head of Games.”
“He was smoking. He’s smoking now! Before those two little boys, too!”
Mr. Brownell panted. “He had the audacity to tell me that——”
“Yes,” the Reverend John cut in. “The Army Class is allowed to smoke
—not in their studies, of course, but within limits, out of doors. You see
we have to compete against the Crammers’ establishments, where
smoking’s usual.”
This was true! Of the only school in England was this the cold truth, and
for the reason given, in that unprogressive age.
“Good Heavens!” said Mr. Brownell to the gulls and the gray sea. “And I
was never warned!”
“The Head is a little forgetful. I ought to have——But it’s all right,” the
Chaplain added soothingly. “Pot won’t—er—give you away.”
Mr. Brownell, who knew what smoking led to, testified out of his twelve
years’ experience of what he called the Animal Boy. He left little
unexplored or unexplained.
“There may be something in what you say,” the Reverend John assented.
“But as a matter of fact, their actual smoking doesn’t amount to much.
They talk a great deal about their brands of tobacco. Practically, it makes
them rather keen on putting down smoking among the juniors—as an
encroachment on their privilege, you see. They lick ’em twice as hard for
it as we’d dare to.”
“Lick!” Mr. Brownell cried. “One expels! One expels! I know the end of
these practices.” He told his companion, in detail, with anecdotes and
inferences, a great deal more about the Animal Boy.
“Ah!” said the Reverend John to himself. “You’ll leave at the end of the
term; but you’ll have a deuce of a time first.” Aloud: “We-ell, I suppose
no one can be sure of any school’s tendency at any given moment, but,
personally, I should incline to believe that we’re reasonably free from the
—er—monastic microbes of—er—older institutions.”
“But a school’s a school. You can’t get out of that! It’s preposterous! You
must admit that,” Mr. Brownell insisted.
They were within hail of Pot by now, and the Reverend John asked him
how Affairs of State stood.
“All right, thank you, sir. How are you, sir?”
“Loungin’ round and sufferin’, my son. What about the dates of the
Exeter and Tiverton matches?”
“As late in the term as we can get ’em, don’t you think, sir?”
“Quite! Specially Blundell’s. They’re our dearest foe,” he explained to
the frozen Mr. Brownell. “Aren’t we rather light in the scrum just now,
Mullins?”
“’Fraid so, sir: but Packman’s playin’ forward this term.”
“At last!” cried the Reverend John. (Packman was Pot’s second-in-
command, who considered himself a heaven-born half-back, but Pot had
been working on him diplomatically.) “He’ll be a pillar, at any rate. Lend
me one of your fuzees, please. I’ve only got matches.”
Mr. Brownell was unused to this sort of talk. “A bad beginning to a bad
business,” he muttered as they returned to College.
Pot finished out his meditations; from time to time rubbing up the gloss
on his new seven-and-sixpenny silver-mounted, rather hot, myall-wood
pipe, with its very thin crust in the bowl.

As the Studies brought back brackets and pictures for their walls, so did
they bring odds and ends of speech—theatre, opera, and music-hall gags
—from the great holiday world; some of which stuck for a term, and
others were discarded. Number Five was unpacking, when Dick Four
(King’s House) of the red nose and dramatic instincts, who with Pussy
and Tertius[1] inhabited the study below, loafed up and asked them “how
their symptoms seemed to segashuate.” They said nothing at the time, for
they knew Dick had a giddy uncle who took him to the Pavilion and the
Cri, and all would be explained later. But, before they met again, Beetle
came across two fags at war in a box-room, one of whom cried to the
other: “Turn me loose, or I’ll knock the natal stuffin’ out of you.” Beetle
demanded why he, being offal, presumed to use this strange speech. The
fag said it came out of a new book about rabbits and foxes and turtles
and niggers, which was in his locker. (Uncle Remus was a popular
holiday gift-book in Shotover’s year: when Cetewayo lived in the
Melbury Road, Arabi Pasha in Egypt, and Spofforth on the Oval.) Beetle
had it out and read for some time, standing by the window, ere he carried
it off to Number Five and began at once to give a wonderful story of a
Tar Baby. Stalky tore it from him because he sputtered incoherently;
McTurk, for the same cause, wrenching it from Stalky. There was no
prep that night. The book was amazing, and full of quotations that one
could hurl like javelins. When they came down to prayers, Stalky, to
show he was abreast of the latest movement, pounded on the door of
Dick Four’s study shouting a couplet that pleased him:

“Ti-yi! Tungalee!
I eat um pea! I pick um pea!”

Upon which Dick Four, hornpiping and squinting, and not at all unlike a
bull-frog, came out and answered from the bottom of his belly, whence
he could produce incredible noises:

“Ingle-go-jang, my joy, my joy!

Ingle-go-jang, my joy!
I’m right at home, my joy, my joy!——”

The chants seemed to answer the ends of their being created for the
moment. They all sang them the whole way up the corridor, and, after
prayers, bore the burdens dispersedly to their several dormitories where
they found many who knew the book of the words, but who, boylike, had
waited for a lead ere giving tongue. In a short time the College was as
severely infected with Uncle Remus as it had been with Pinafore and
Patience. King realised it specially because he was running Macrea’s
House in addition to his own and, Dick Four said, was telling his new
charges what he thought of his “esteemed colleague’s” methods of
House-control.
The Reverend John was talking to the Head in the latter’s study, perhaps
a fortnight later.
“If you’d only wired me,” he said. “I could have dug up something that
might have tided us over. This man’s dangerous.”
“Mea culpa!” the Head replied. “I had so much on hand. Our Governing
Council alone——But what do We make of him?”
“Trust Youth! We call him ‘Mister.’”
“‘Mister Brownell’?”
“Just ‘Mister.’ It took Us three days to plumb his soul.”
“And he doesn’t approve of Our institutions? You say he is On the Track
—eh? He suspects the worst?”
The School Chaplain nodded.
“We-ell. I should say that that was the one tendency we had not
developed. Setting aside we haven’t even a curtain in a dormitory, let
alone a lock to any form-room door—there has to be tradition in these
things.”
“So I believe. So, indeed, one knows. And—’tisn’t as if I ever preached
on personal purity either.”
The Head laughed. “No, or you’d join Brownell at term-end. By the way,
what’s this new line of Patristic discourse you’re giving us in church? I
found myself listening to some of it last Sunday.”
“Oh! My early Christianity sermons? I bought a dozen ready made in
Town just before I came down. Some one who knows his Gibbon must
have done ’em. Aren’t they good?” The Reverend John, who was no
hand at written work, beamed self-approvingly. There was a knock and
Pot entered.
The weather had defeated him, at last. All footer-grounds, he reported,
were unplayable, and must be rested. His idea, to keep things going, was
Big and Little Side Paper-chases thrice a week. For the Juniors, a
shortish course on the Burrows which he intended to oversee personally
the first few times, while Packman lunged Big Side across the inland and
upland ploughs, for proper sweats. There was some question of bounds
that he asked authority to vary; and, would the Head please say which
afternoons would interfere least with the Army Class, Extra Tuition.
As to bounds, the Head left those, as usual, entirely to Pot. The Reverend
John volunteered to shift one of his extra-Tu classes from four to five .
. till after prayers—nine to ten. The whole question was settled in five
minutes.
“We hate paper-chases, don’t we, Pot?” the Headmaster asked as the
Head of Games rose.
“Yes, sir, but it keeps ’em in training. Good night, sir.”
“To go back——” drawled the Head when the door was well shut. “No-
o. I do not think so!... Ye-es! He’ll leave at the end of the term.... A-aah!
How does it go? ‘Don’t ’spute wid de squinch owl. Jam de shovel in de
fier.’ Have you come across that extraordinary book, by the way?”
“Oh, yes. We’ve got it badly too. It has some sort of elemental appeal, I
suppose.”
Here Mr. King came in with a neat little scheme for the reorganisation of
certain details in Macrea’s House, where he had detected reprehensible
laxities. The Head sighed. The Reverend John only heard the beginnings
of it. Then he slid out softly. He remembered he had not written to
Macrea for quite a long time.

The first Big Side Paper-chase, in blinding wet, was as vile as even the
groaning and bemired Beetle had prophesied. But Dick Four had
managed to run his own line when it skirted Bideford, and turned up at
the Lavatories half an hour late cherishing a movable tumour beneath his
sweater.
“Ingle-go-jang!” he chanted, and slipped out a warm but coy land-
tortoise.
“My Sacred Hat!” cried Stalky. “Brer Terrapin! Where you catchee?
What you makee-do aveck?”
This was Stalky’s notion of how they talked in Uncle Remus; and he
spake no other tongue for weeks.
“I don’t know yet; but I had to get him. ’Man with a barrow full of ’em
in Bridge Street. ’Gave me my choice for a bob. Leave him alone, you
owl! He won’t swim where you’ve been washing your filthy self! ‘I’m
right at home, my joy, my joy.’” Dick’s nose shone like Bardolph’s as he
bubbled in the bath.
Just before tea-time, he, “Pussy,” and Tertius broke in upon Number
Five, processionally, singing:

“Ingle-go-jang, my joy, my joy!

Ingle-go-jang, my joy!
I’m right at home, my joy, my joy!
Ingle-go-jang, my joy.”

Brer Terrapin, painted or and sable—King’s House-colours—swung by a

neatly contrived belly-band from the end of a broken jumping-pole. They
thought rather well of taking him in to tea. They called at one or two
studies on the way, and were warmly welcomed; but when they reached
the still shut doors of the dining-hall (Richards, ex-Petty Officer, R. N.,
was always unpunctual—but they needn’t have called him “Stinking
Jim”) the whole school shouted approval. After the meal, Brer Terrapin
was borne the round of the form-rooms from Number One to Number
Twelve, in an unbroken roar of homage.
“To-morrow,” Dick Four announced, “we’ll sacrifice to him. Fags in
blazin’ paper-baskets!” and with thundering “Ingle-go-jangs” the Idol
retired to its shrine.
It had been a satisfactory performance. Little Hartopp, surprised
labelling “rocks” in Number Twelve, which held the Natural History
Museum, had laughed consumedly; and the Reverend John, just before
prep, complimented Dick that he had not a single dissenter to his
following. In this respect the affair was an advance on Byzantium and
Alexandria which, of course, were torn by rival sects led by militant
Bishops or zealous heathen. Vide, (Beetle,) Hypatia, and (if Dick Four
ever listened, instead of privily swotting up his Euclid, in Church) the
Reverend John’s own sermons. Mr. King, who had heard the noise but
had not appeared, made no comment till dinner, when he told the
Common Room ceiling that he entertained the lowest opinion of Uncle
Remus’s buffoonery, but opined that it might interest certain types of
intellect. Little Hartopp, School Librarian, who had, by special request,
laid in an extra copy of the book, differed acridly. He had, he said, heard
or overheard every salient line of Uncle Remus quoted, appositely too,
by boys whom he would not have credited with intellectual interests. Mr.
King repeated that he was wearied by the senseless and childish
repetitions of immature minds. He recalled the Patience epidemic. Mr.
Prout did not care for Uncle Remus—the dialect put him off—but he
thought the Houses were getting a bit out of hand. There was nothing one
could lay hold of, of course—“As yet,” Mr. Brownell interjected darkly.
“But this larking about in form-rooms,” he added, “had potentialities
which, if he knew anything of the Animal Boy, would develop—or had
developed.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” said the Reverend John. “This is the first time to
my knowledge that Stalky has ever played second-fiddle to any one. Brer
Terrapin was entirely Dick Four’s notion. By the way, he was painted
your House-colours, King.”
“Was he?” said King artlessly. “I have always held that our Dickson
Quartus had the rudiments of imagination. We will look into it—look
into it.”
“In our loathsome calling, more things are done by judicious letting
alone than by any other,” the Reverend John grunted.
“I can’t subscribe to that,” said Mr. Prout. “You haven’t a House,” and
for once Mr. King backed Prout.
“Thank Heaven I haven’t. Or I should be like you two. Leave ’em alone!
Leave ’em alone! Haven’t you ever seen puppies fighting over a slipper
for hours?”
“Yes, but Gillette admits that Dickson Quartus was the only begetter of
this manifestation. I wasn’t aware that the—er—Testacean had been
tricked out in my colours,” said King.
And at that very hour, Number Five Study—“prep” thrown to the winds
—were toiling inspiredly at a Tar Baby made up of Beetle’s sweater, and
half-a-dozen lavatory-towels; a condemned cretonne curtain and ditto
baize table-cloth for “natal stuffin’”; an ancient, but air-tight puntabout-
ball for the head; all three play-box ropes for bindings; and most of
Richard’s weekly blacking allowance for Prout’s House’s boots to give
tone to the whole.
“Gummy!” said Beetle when their curtain-pole had been taken down and
Tar Baby hitched to the end of it by a loop in its voluptuous back. “It
looks pretty average indecent, somehow.”
“You can use it this way, too,” Turkey demonstrated, handling the
curtain-pole like a flail. “Now, shove it in the fireplace to dry an’ we’ll
wash up.”
“But—but,” said Stalky, fascinated by the unspeakable front and behind
of the black and bulging horror. “How come he lookee so hellish?”
“Dead easy! If you do anything with your whole heart, Ruskin says, you
always pull off something dam’-fine. Brer Terrapin’s only a natural
animal; but Tar Baby’s Art,” McTurk explained.
“I see! ‘If you’re anxious for to shine in the high æsthetic line.’ Well, Tar
Baby’s the filthiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” Stalky concluded.
“King’ll be rabid.”
The United idolaters set forth, side by side, at five o’clock next
afternoon; Brer Terrapin, wide awake, and swimming hard into nothing;
Tar Baby lurching from side to side with a lascivious abandon that made
Foxy, the School Sergeant, taking defaulters’ drill in the Corridor,
squawk like an outraged hen. And when they ceremoniously saluted each
other, like aristocratic heads on revolutionary pikes, it beat the previous
day’s performance out of sight and mind. The very fags, offered up, till
the bottoms of the paper-baskets carried away, as heave-offerings before
them, fell over each other for the honour; and House by House, when the
news spread, dropped its doings, and followed the Mysteries—not
without song.
Some say it was a fag of Prout’s who appealed for rescue from Brer
Terrapin to Tar Baby; others, that the introits to the respective creeds
(“Ingle-go-jang”—“Ti-yi-Tungalee!”) carried in themselves the seeds of
dissent. At any rate, the cleavage developed as swiftly as in a new
religion, and by tea-time when they were fairly hoarse, the rolling world
was rent to the death between Ingles versus Tungles, and Brer Terrapin
had swept out Number Eleven form-room to the War-cry: “Here I come
a-bulgin’ and a-bilin’.” Prep stopped further developments, but they
agreed that, as a recreation for wet autumn evenings, the jape was
unequalled, and called for its repetition on Saturday.
That was a brilliant evening, too. Both sides went into prayers practically
re-dressing themselves. There was a smell of singed fag down the lines
and a watery eye or so; but nothing to which the most fastidious could
have objected. The Reverend John hinted something about roof-lifting
noises.
“Oh, no, Padre, Sahib. We were only billin’ an’ cooin’ a bit,” Stalky
explained. “We haven’t really begun. There’s goin’ to be a tug-o’-war
next Saturday with Miss Meadow’s bed-cord——”
“‘Which in dem days would ha’ hilt a mule,’” the Reverend John quoted.
“Well, I’ve got to be impartial. I wish you both good luck.”
The week, with its three paper-chases, passed uneventfully, but for a
certain amount of raiding and reprisals on new lines that might have
warned them they were playing with fire. The Juniors had learned to use
the sacred war-chants as signals of distress; oppressed Ingles squealing
for aid against oppressing Tungles, and vice versa; so that one never
knew when a peaceful form-room would flare up in song and slaughter.
But not a soul dreamed, for a moment, that that Saturday’s jape would
develop into—what it did! They were rigidly punctilious about the ritual;
exquisitely careful as to the weights on Miss Meadow’s bed-cord, kindly
lent by Richards, who said he knew nothing about mules, but guaranteed
it would hold a barge’s crew; and if Dick Four chose to caparison
himself as Archimandrite of Joppa, black as burned cork could make
him, why, Stalky, in a nightgown kilted up beneath his sweater, was
equally the Pope Symmachus, just converted from heathendom but given
to alarming relapses.
It began after tea—say 6.50 . . It got into its stride by 7.30 when
Turkey, with pillows bound round the ends of forms, invented the Royal
Battering-Ram Corps. It grew and—it grew till a quarter to nine when
the Prefects, most of whom had fought on one side or the other, thought
it time to stop and went in with ground-ashes and the bare hand for ten
minutes....
Honours for the action were not awarded by the Head till Monday
morning when he dealt out one dozen lickings to selected seniors, eight
“millies” (one thousand), fourteen “usuals” (five hundred lines), minor
impositions past count, and a stoppage of pocket-money on a scale and
for a length of time unprecedented in modern history.
He said the College was within an ace of being burned to the ground
when the gas-jet in Number Eleven form-room—where they tried to burn
Tar Baby, fallen for the moment into the hands of the enemy—was
wrenched off, and the lit gas spouted all over the ceiling till some one
plugged the pipe with dormitory soap. He said that nothing save his
consideration for their future careers kept him from expelling the wanton
ruffians who had noosed all the desks in Number Twelve and swept them
up in one crackling mound, barring a couple that had pitch-poled through
the window. This, again, had been no man’s design but the inspiration of
necessity when Tar Baby’s bodyguard, surrounded but defiant, was only
rescued at the last minute by Turkey’s immortal flank-attack with the
battering-rams that carried away the door of Number Nine. He said that
the same remarks applied to the fireplace and mantelpiece in Number
Seven which everybody had seen fall out of the wall of their own motion
after Brer Terrapin had hitched Miss Meadow’s bed-cord to the bars of
the grate.
He said much more, too; but as King pointed out in Common Room that
evening, his canings were inept, he had not confiscated the Idols and,
above all, had not castigated, as King would have castigated, the
disgusting childishness of all concerned.
“Well,” said Little Hartopp. “I saw the Prefects choking them off as we
came into prayers. You’ve reason to reckon that in the scale of
suffering.”
“And more than half the damage was done under your banner, King,” the
Reverend John added.
“That doesn’t affect my judgment; though, as a matter of fact, I believe
Brer Terrapin triumphed over Tar Baby all along the line. Didn’t he,
Prout?”
“It didn’t seem to me a fitting time to ask. The Tar Babies were
handicapped, of course, by not being able to—ah—tackle a live animal.”
“I confess,” Mr. Brownell volunteered, “it was the studious perversity of
certain aspects of the orgy which impressed me. And yet, what can one
exp——”
“How do you mean?” King demanded. “Dickson Quartus may be
eccentric, but——”
“I was alluding to the vile and calculated indecency of that black doll.”
Mr. Brownell had passed Tar Baby going down to battle, all round and
ripe, before Turkey had begun to use it as Bishop Odo’s holy-water
sprinkler.
“It is possible you didn’t——”
“I never noticed anything,” said Prout. “If there had been, I should have
been the first——”
Here Little Hartopp sniggered, which did not cool the air.
“Peradventure,” King began with due intake of the breath. “Peradventure
even I might have taken cognizance of the matter both for my own
House’s sake and for my colleague’s.... No! Folly I concede. Utter
childishness and complete absence of discipline in all quarters, as the
natural corollary to dabbling in so-called transatlantic humour, I frankly
admit. But that there was anything esoterically obscene in the outbreak I
absolutely deny.”
“They’ve been fighting for weeks over those things,” said Mr. Prout.
“’Silly, of course, but I don’t see how it can be dangerous.”
“Quite true. Any House-master of experience knows that, Brownell,” the
Reverend John put in reprovingly.
“Given a normal basis of tradition and conduct—certainly,” Mr.
Brownell answered. “But with such amazing traditions as exist here, no
man with any experience of the Animal Boy can draw your deceptive
inferences. That’s all I mean.”
Once again, and not for the first time, but with greater heat he testified
what smoking led to—what, indeed, he was morally certain existed in
full blast under their noses....
Gloves were off in three minutes. Pessimists, no more than poets, love
each other, and even when they work together it is one thing to pessimise
congenially with an ancient and tried associate who is also a butt, and
another to be pessimised over by an inexperienced junior, even though
the latter’s college career may have included more exhibitions—nay,
even pot-huntings—than one’s own. The Reverend John did his best to
pour water on the flames. Little Hartopp, perceiving that it was pure oil,
threw in canfuls of his own, from the wings. In the end, words passed
which would have made the Common Room uninhabitable for the future,
but that Macrea had written (the Reverend John had seen the letter)
saying that his knee was fairly re-knit and he was prepared to take on
again at half-term. This happened to be the only date since the Creation
beyond which Mr. Brownell’s self-respect would not permit him to stay
one hour. It solved the situation, amid puffings and blowings and bitter
epigrams, and a most distinguished stateliness of bearing all round till
Mr. Brownell’s departure.

“My dear fellow!” said the Reverend John to Macrea, on the first night
of the latter’s return. “I do hope there was nothing in my letters to you—
you asked me to keep you posted—that gave you any idea King wasn’t
doing his best with your House according to his lights?”
“Not in the least,” said Macrea. “I’ve the greatest respect for King, but
after all, one’s House is one’s House. One can’t stand it being tinkered
with by well-meaning outsiders.”
To Mr. Brownell on Bideford station-platform, the Reverend John’s last
words were:
“Well, well. You mustn’t judge us too harshly. I dare say there’s a great
deal in what you say. Oh, yes! King’s conduct was inexcusable,
absolutely inexcusable! About the smoking? Lamentable, but we must all
bow down, more or less, in the House of Rimmon. We have to compete
with the Crammers’ Shops.”
To the Head, in the silence of his study, next day: “He didn’t seem to me
the kind of animal who’d keep to advantage in our atmosphere. Luckily
he lost his temper (King and he are own brothers) and he couldn’t
withdraw his resignation.”
“Excellent. After all, it’s only a few pounds to make up. I’ll slip it in
under our recent—er—barrack damages. And what do We think of it all,
Gillette?”
“We do not think at all—any of us,” said the Reverend John. “Youth is its
own prophylactic, thank Heaven.”
And the Head, not usually devout, echoed, “Thank Heaven!”

“It was worth it,” Dick Four pronounced on review of the profit-and-loss
account with Number Five in his study.
“Heap-plenty-bong-assez,” Stalky assented.
“But why didn’t King ra’ar up an’ cuss Tar Baby?” Beetle asked.
“You preter-pluperfect, fat-ended fool!” Stalky began—
“Keep your hair on! We all know the Idolaters wasn’t our Uncle Stalky’s
idea. But why didn’t King——”
“Because Dick took care to paint Brer Terrapin King’s House-colours.
You can always conciliate King by soothin’ his putrid esprit-de-maisong.
Ain’t that true, Dick?”
Dick Four, with the smile of modest worth unmasked, said it was so.
“An’ now,” Turkey yawned. “King an’ Macrea’ll jaw for the rest of the
term how he ran his house when Macrea was trying to marry fat widows
in Switzerland. Mountaineerin’! ’Bet Macrea never went near a
mountain.”
“’One good job, though. I go back to Macrea for Maths. He does know
something,” said Stalky.
“Why? Didn’t ‘Mister’ know anythin’?” Beetle asked.
“’Bout as much as you,” was Stalky’s reply.
“I don’t go about pretending to. What was he like?”
“‘Mister’? Oh, rather like King—King and water.”
Only water was not precisely the fluid that Stalky thought fit to mention.
[1] See “Slaves of the Lamp”—Stalky and Co.
 THE CENTAURS

Up came the young Centaur-colts from the plains they were

fathered in—
Curious, awkward, afraid.
Burrs in their hocks and their tails, they were gathered in
Mobs and run up to the yard to be made.

Starting and shying at straws, with sidelings and plungings,

Buckings and whirlings and bolts;
Greener than grass, but full-ripe for their bridlings and lungings,
Up to the yards and to Chiron they bustled the colts....

First the light web and the cavesson; then the linked keys
To jingle and turn on the tongue. Then, with cocked ears,
The hour of watching and envy, while comrades at ease
Passaged and backed, making naught of these terrible gears.

Next, over-pride and its price at the low-seeming fence,

Too oft and too easily taken—the world-beheld fall!
And none in the yard except Chiron to doubt the immense,
Irretrievable shame of it all!...

Last, the trained squadron, full-charge—the sound of a going

Through dust and spun clods, and strong kicks, pelted in as
they went,
And repaid at top-speed; till the order to halt without slowing
Brought every colt on his haunches—and Chiron content!
THE WISH HOUSE
 “LATE CAME THE GOD”

Late came the God, having sent his forerunners who were not
regarded—
Late, but in wrath;
Saying: “The wrong shall be paid, the contempt be rewarded
On all that she hath.”
He poisoned the blade and struck home, the full bosom receiving
The wound and the venom in one, past cure or relieving.

He made treaty with Time to stand still that the grief might be
fresh—
Daily renewed and nightly pursued through her soul to her flesh
—
Mornings of memory, noontides of agony, midnights unslaked for
her,
Till the stones of the streets of her Hells and her Paradise ached
for her.

So she lived while her body corrupted upon her.

And she called on the Night for a sign, and a Sign was allowed,
And she builded an Altar and served by the light of her Vision—
Alone, without hope of regard or reward, but uncowed,
Resolute, selfless, divine.
These things she did in Love’s honour ...
What is a God beside Woman? Dust and derision!